The year was 1945. World War II was over, and we were finally going home. I remember that day so vividly—the bright sun hanging in a clear sky, a sky that felt like it had been scrubbed clean after years of darkness. The air was thick with the scent of saltwater and victory, mingling with the sweat and smoke that had become all too familiar. The boys were ecstatic, cheering and celebrating as if they had just conquered the world itself—and in many ways, they had.

It was hard to believe, almost like a dream. We had won. After years of relentless fighting, trudging through the muck and mire of battlefields that seemed to stretch on forever, we had come out on the other side. We had fought through hell, seen the horrors of war firsthand—the death, the destruction, the sheer madness of it all—and now, against all odds, we were finally going home.

The relief was palpable, a tangible thing that clung to the air and wrapped itself around us. Home, for so long, had been a distant memory—a place we dared not think about too often, for fear it would make the fighting harder, the losses sharper. But now, it was within reach, just a boat ride away. I could see it in their eyes, in the way they carried themselves—shoulders a little less burdened, smiles that came a little easier. The war had taken so much from us, but in that moment, it felt like we were getting something back.

I was happy too, though perhaps not in the same way the boys were. For them, it was a return to the lives they had left behind, a chance to pick up where they had been forced to pause. For me, it was a bit more complicated. As the Spirit of Sekhmet, I had a duty beyond the battlefield, a calling that didn’t end with the signing of treaties or the surrender of enemy forces.

That night, back in Harlem, I sat with a fellow Special, Johnny “The Blaze”—one of our own, who had been fighting crime alongside me before we were all called to war. Johnny wasa pyrokinetic, the embodiment of fire, with the power to control and generate it at will. We were sitting on a rooftop, watching the last colors of the sunset fade away, the jazz music from below wafting up in the evening air.

"You ever wonder if things will go back to how they used to be?" Johnny asked, his eyes flickering like the flames he commanded.

I leaned back against the brick wall, my armor glinting in the dimming light. "Not for us," I replied, my voice steady. "Crime didn’t take a vacation while we were out fighting Hitler’s monsters. The city’s different now, and so are we."

Johnny exhaled, a small flame dancing briefly on his lips before disappearing. "And Sammy?" he asked, his voice quieter. "You think it’s just him coming back to claim old territory?"

I clenched my jaw. Slick Sammy, the lowlife pimp who had slithered back into Harlem, was a symptom of a deeper problem. "No," I said firmly. "Sammy’s just the start. There are others. The underworld grew bolder while we were gone, and there are whispers about new powers emerging—some kind of experiment gone wrong. People like Sammy, with abilities they shouldn’t have."

Johnny turned to look at me, his gaze questioning. "You think it’s connected to what we saw out there?"

I nodded slowly, the memories of Nazi mad science and twisted flesh flashing through my mind. "I don’t know how, but yes. Whatever darkness we fought in Europe didn’t stay there, Johnny. We brought it back with us, and now it’s here, in our streets."

He sighed, shaking his head. "We’ve got our work cut out for us, don’t we?"

I smiled, though it held no warmth. "We always do."

With that, I left Johnny and started my patrol, moving silently along the rooftops, my golden armor blending into the shadows. As the Spirit of Sekhmet, I was more than just a crime fighter; I was a protector, a symbol of hope for the people of Harlem. Tonight, I intended to remind Slick Sammy of that fact.

I patrolled the rooftops, Harlem's heartbeat echoing in the sounds of jazz spilling out of the clubs below, mingling with the laughter and chatter of people who were finally beginning to feel the joys of peace. Despite the cheerful sounds of the neighborhood, I felt the familiar twinge of something darker brewing beneath the surface. It was an instinct that had been honed in the war—a sense for when trouble was lurking, ready to spill over.

I moved with the grace and power granted to me by the Urn of Sekhmet. The golden armor that adorned my body shimmered, its design reminiscent of a Nubian warrior queen. It was both a symbol and a shield, a representation of the power that had been bestowed upon me. I was no longer Gloria Griffin, the shy girl who had spent her life navigating a world that didn’t fully accept her. As Sekhmet’s vessel, I embodied something greater—a force for justice, strength, and protection.

It wasn’t long before I found what I was looking for. Down below, in a narrow alleyway, I caught sight of movement—a group of men, and at the center of them, the unmistakable figure of Slick Sammy. He was just as greasy and self-satisfied as I remembered. I paused, watching as he barked orders, his thugs nodding as they loaded crates into an unmarked truck. The young woman near him cowered, her eyes wide with fear as Sammy leered at her.

My lip curled in disgust. I’d put Sammy in his place before the war, left him with broken weapons and an ego in shambles. He’d been nothing more than a street thug back then—a parasite feeding off the vulnerable. The fact that he’d come back to Harlem meant he hadn’t learned his lesson.

Time to teach it to him again.

I dropped from the rooftop, landing in the midst of the thugs with a roar that echoed through the alleyway—a powerful, leonine bellow that shook the very ground beneath us. It was one of Sekhmet's gifts, a signature that could scatter hardened criminals like leaves in the wind. True to form, the thugs' courage evaporated instantly, and they bolted, leaving only Slick Sammy and the frightened woman.

Sammy, however, stood his ground, a twisted grin spreading across his face. He looked at me, his eyes glinting with something that made my skin crawl. He was different now—there was a darkness in him that hadn’t been there before, something far more dangerous.

“Well, well, look who decided to come back and play hero,” Sammy sneered, his voice dripping with malice. He glanced at the young woman cowering beside him, then back at me. “Why don’t you join my business, sweetheart? I’m always looking for someone with a bit of flash to bring in the customers.”

I saw red. The audacity, the disrespect—after everything we had fought for, after the lives we had lost—this was what he thought he could get away with? My fists moved before I even registered the thought. I lunged forward, throwing a punch with every ounce of strength I had, aiming to smash that vile grin off his face.

But instead of the satisfying crunch of bone, my fist sank into his face as though I had punched through thick, greasy pudding. A sickening sensation shot up my arm as his face deformed around my hand, and I yanked my fist back, stumbling in disbelief. Sammy laughed, a distorted, gurgling sound that echoed through the narrow alley.

“Surprised, Sekhmet?” he taunted, his voice twisted and inhuman. Before my eyes, his body began to melt, shifting into a mass of black, oily liquid that shimmered in the dim alley light. He no longer resembled a man—he was something monstrous, something that writhed and flowed like liquid tar.

He lifted a dripping limb and sneered. “I’m not just Slick Sammy anymore. You can call me Oil Slick.”

The realization hit me like a punch to the gut. Whatever experiments the government had subjected him to during the war had turned Sammy into this—a twisted, oily monstrosity that seemed impervious to everything I threw at him. His form shifted and elongated, limbs morphing into whip-like tentacles that lashed out at me with impossible speed.

I dodged, twisting away as the oily tendrils cracked through the air, narrowly missing my head. He was fast, faster than I had expected, and his attacks came from all angles. One moment he was a towering mass of black liquid, the next he had reformed into a swirling tornado of tar-like substance, his limbs lashing out with a strength that forced me on the defensive.

I swung at him, but my blows were useless, my fists passing through his fluid form like I was punching smoke. My lioness roar, so effective against ordinary thugs, did nothing to slow him down. Each attack seemed to ripple harmlessly through his body, and I realized with a sinking feeling that brute strength alone wasn’t going to win this fight.

Oil Slick was relentless, his laughter echoing through the alley as he pressed the attack. His form twisted and coiled, tendrils wrapping around my arms, my legs, pulling me toward him with a force that was almost overwhelming. I struggled, trying to wrench myself free, but the slick, oily substance clung to me, weighing me down.

I had fought monsters before—bio-weapons and Nazi abominations that defied explanation—but this was different. Sammy, who had once been nothing more than a street-level criminal, had become something far more dangerous. He had been transformed by the war, twisted into a monster that I couldn’t defeat with raw power alone.

***

I twisted, using every ounce of strength I had to break free from Oil Slick's grasp. My golden armor groaned under the pressure, and for a moment, I feared I might not be able to escape. But then, in a surge of adrenaline-fueled power, I managed to tear myself free, tumbling backward as the oily tendrils lost their grip on me.

As I scrambled to my feet, my mind raced, desperately trying to come up with a new strategy. My strength and Sekhmet’s roar weren’t going to be enough. I needed a different approach—something that would actually hurt him.

In that frantic moment, I remembered one of Sekhmet’s more dangerous gifts—the power of the sunfire, flames that burned with the intensity of the desert sun. It was a power I rarely used, one that could cause massive destruction if I wasn’t careful. But against someone like Oil Slick, someone whose very body seemed to thrive on being untouchable, maybe it was the answer.

I took a deep breath, centering myself, and called upon Sekhmet's fire. The energy flowed through me, heating my blood until it felt like my very veins were filled with molten gold. The air around my hands shimmered, and a second later, they erupted in flames—golden, blazing sunfire that crackled and hissed in the night.

The alley lit up with a fierce, almost blinding glow, and I saw Oil Slick hesitate. His form rippled, shrinking back from the light and heat. That was all the confirmation I needed.

I lunged forward, swinging my flaming fists toward him. The sunfire struck his oily form, and for the first time since the fight began, I saw him react. The flames burned through his liquid body, sending plumes of acrid smoke billowing into the air. He recoiled, his once-fluid form becoming erratic as he tried to retreat.

I pressed the attack, the flames growing hotter, brighter with each strike. The fire consumed him, searing away the advantage he had held over me. His tendrils snapped out, trying to catch me, but each one that came near was met with a burst of sunfire that reduced it to charred residue. Oil Slick was shrinking, his mass dwindling as the flames devoured him.

"You had enough yet?" I shouted, my voice echoing with the power of Sekhmet. There was no answer, just a guttural growl that seemed to come from the very core of what was left of him. He tried one last desperate attack, a flurry of tendrils reaching out from all directions, but I was ready. I moved with the grace of a lioness, weaving between the attacks before launching my final strike.

With a roar, I drove both of my sunfire-covered fists into the center of his mass, unleashing all the energy I could muster. The flames exploded outward, engulfing what remained of Oil Slick in a brilliant blaze of light and heat. The alley was filled with the roar of the flames, and when the light finally dimmed, all that was left of him was a smoldering puddle of blackened goo on the ground.

I stood there, breathing heavily, my heart pounding as the last of the flames died away. The golden glow faded from my hands, leaving them trembling slightly from the intensity of the power I had just unleashed. Oil Slick was no more—or at least, not in any form that could pose a threat.

I spotted a discarded soda bottle nearby and picked it up, scooping what was left of Sammy into it. The oily residue swirled inside, still moving, still alive, but there wasn’t enough of him left to be dangerous. It felt strange, almost anticlimactic, to bring in a villain this way—in a bottle, instead of handcuffed or restrained. But Sammy had become something twisted, something that didn’t fit neatly into the world of laws and consequences.

I knew I couldn’t take him to the police. They weren’t equipped to deal with whatever he had become. Instead, I made arrangements to hand him over to the government. They had the resources to contain him, or so I thought. When they arrived to take him off my hands, they thanked me for retrieving an "AWOL resource." The way they said it, the way they handled him—it sent a chill down my spine.

As they drove away, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had just handed over something dangerous to people who might not have Harlem’s best interests at heart. There was a coldness to them, a sense of detachment that reminded me too much of the war, of the scientists and officials who had seen us Specials as tools rather than people.

Standing alone in the now-silent alley, I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself. The adrenaline was fading, leaving me with a weariness that settled deep in my bones. I looked up at the sky, the stars twinkling above, and wondered what the future held—for me, for Harlem, for all of us.

The war might have ended, but our fight was far from over.

***

I made my way out of the alley, the adrenaline fading with each step I took. The streets of Harlem were quiet now, the nightlife having shifted to another part of the neighborhood, the celebratory music and laughter drifting from farther away. I kept my head up and my senses sharp, still wary of anything else lurking in the darkness. The transformation back into Gloria would have to wait until I knew it was safe. Tonight had already proven that complacency wasn't an option.

I reached the main avenue and took in the scene—a mix of celebration and normalcy. People were out on the sidewalks, some laughing and talking, others simply enjoying the summer night. A few even recognized me, giving nods or waves. The Spirit of Sekhmet was well known in Harlem, and despite what had happened tonight, I still felt a swell of pride seeing that recognition, knowing that I was part of this community, that they trusted me to protect them.

But my mind kept drifting back to Sammy. Seeing him transformed into Oil Slick had rattled me more than I’d like to admit. He was no super-genius, no sinister mastermind. He’d just been a low-life criminal, barely worth my time before the war. And yet here he was, wielding powers that could've easily overpowered me had I not figured out his weakness. How many more like Sammy were out there now? Empowered not through accident or destiny but deliberate, calculated manipulation?

I felt a chill run down my spine, and for a brief moment, I allowed myself to acknowledge the fear that lurked at the edges of my mind. Everything had changed since the war. We had opened Pandora’s box, and now, people like Sammy were slipping through the cracks, turning into something far more dangerous than they ever had the right to be. This new kind of villain was something we had never faced before—created rather than born or accidentally empowered.

“Spirit!” A voice called, snapping me out of my thoughts.

I turned to see a young boy, no older than ten, rushing toward me with a wide grin on his face. Behind him, his mother watched, a smile of her own as she gave me a respectful nod.

“Spirit, did you get the bad guy?” the boy asked, looking up at me with eyes wide with admiration.

I smiled, letting the warmth of the moment wash over the unease that had taken root. I crouched down so that I was at eye level with him. “Yes, I got him. He won’t be bothering anyone anymore.”

The boy's smile widened, and he gave a triumphant little cheer. “I knew you would! My mama says you’re the bravest hero in Harlem!”

The mother, standing just a few feet away, met my eyes, and I saw something there—gratitude, yes, but also a kind of hope. That was what we were fighting for, what we always had been fighting for. No matter how much the world changed, no matter how many new threats rose to challenge us, there were still people worth protecting. People who believed in us, who needed us.

“Your mama’s a smart lady,” I said with a wink to the boy, standing back up. “You make sure you listen to her, alright?”

He nodded eagerly, his eyes shining. “I will!”

As the boy and his mother walked away, I took a deep breath, feeling a renewed sense of purpose. Yes, the landscape of our fight was changing. Yes, we were up against forces that were darker, more insidious than ever before. But I wasn’t alone. I had my community, my people. Harlem was my home, and I would fight for it—no matter what came next.

With that thought, I decided it was time to return to being Gloria for the night. I ducked into a quiet side street, out of sight of any onlookers, and allowed the power of Sekhmet to ebb away. The transformation was always an odd sensation, like stepping back into a version of myself that was smaller, less powerful—but more human. My golden armor faded, replaced by the simple clothes I had worn beneath. My hair, once a cascading mane worthy of a goddess, became the carefully pinned curls that Gloria wore.

I stood there for a moment, taking in a deep breath and grounding myself in this version of me. Gloria Griffin—just a woman trying to make a difference. It was strange, the duality of it all. I could feel Sekhmet’s power humming at the edges of my mind, always there, always ready, but I also felt the fragility of my humanity, the vulnerability that came with being just a woman walking alone through the streets at night.

But maybe that was what made me strong. The fact that I could walk both paths, that I could embrace the power of an ancient goddess but also the simple, stubborn resilience of a woman who refused to back down. The war, the powers, the villains—none of it could take away who I was at my core.

I began the walk back to my apartment, the night air cool against my skin. I thought about the government agents, about the way they had taken Sammy without question, without hesitation. Something about it felt wrong, like a piece of a larger puzzle that I wasn’t seeing yet. I knew I would have to be careful, that whatever lay ahead would require more than just the strength of Sekhmet.

The world was changing, and we had to change with it. We had to be smarter, stronger, and more vigilant than ever before. But as long as I had the people of Harlem, as long as they believed in me, I knew I could face whatever came next.

I reached my building, the familiar creak of the front door greeting me as I stepped inside. The hallway was dimly lit, the kind of place that might have felt unwelcoming to someone else. But to me, it was home. I made my way up the stairs, each step echoing softly in the quiet of the night.

As I reached my door, I paused for a moment, glancing back down the hallway. The shadows seemed to stretch on forever, dark and unknown. There were battles yet to come, challenges that I couldn’t even begin to imagine. But I was ready for them. I was the Spirit of Sekhmet, the protector of Harlem, and I would not let the darkness win.

With a final, determined breath, I unlocked my door and stepped inside, ready to face whatever tomorrow would bring.

The following morning, the world felt different. It was a subtle shift, like the calm before a storm—a feeling that something larger was brewing beneath the surface. As Gloria, I made my way through Harlem, the streets bustling with people starting their day. The vendors on the corners were setting up their stands, children played along the sidewalks, and the sounds of the city mingled in the air, creating a familiar symphony of life.

Despite the liveliness around me, I couldn’t shake the lingering unease from the previous night. The memory of Sammy—now Oil Slick—and the government agents flashed through my mind repeatedly. The way they had handled him, the way they had thanked me for “retrieving an AWOL resource”—it didn’t sit right. It was the language they had used, the way they had spoken of Sammy not as a person but as a property that had gone rogue. It gnawed at me, a quiet voice in the back of my mind that refused to be silenced.

I looked around at the people of Harlem on my way home—the kids playing, the parents watching over them, the elderly folks chatting on the stoop. This was my home, the place I had sworn to protect, and I couldn't ignore the feeling that something darker was waiting on the horizon.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that the world had only just been saved from one kind of evil to face another, and that the gold in the world was going to fade to silver.